


Wardeness of the North

by Bearfeat



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearfeat/pseuds/Bearfeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When, again, Sansa is promised to wed a new man, she decides to take some matters into her own hands. She is not going to be a victim anymore. She is not going to let men decide what becomes of her. And she'll be damned if she gets married to that traitor Ramsey Bolton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wardeness of the North

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the TV-series universe, but before Sansa and Baelish leave The Vale. Some days before they leave for Winterfell, Petyr tells her about marrying Ramsey.

‘I don’t want it. Not with Ramsey.’ Lord Baelish’s pace came to a halt, just outside her door.

‘I’m afraid you have no choice, Lady Sansa.’ His voice sounded adamant. So looked his posture. But if he were, why did he stop in her doorway?

‘Do I not?’ Sansa’s voice did shake only a little. Too many times she was promised to a man. Twice now, she would marry a man she knew to be a monster, a betrayer of her family, a killer of those she loved. Only Tyrion Lannister, the imp, the one who seemed least fitted for  a marriage to this tall and slender beauty of the North, did not make her feel like the most useless woman in the world. He did not, however, make her feel loved like she knew her father did make her mother feel loved. She did never marry into a feeling of tenderness, or home. Her parents grew together into a single, strong unity. A marriage like that is all she ever thought she would know.

 

‘You love me, Lord…. Petyr…’ Sansa continued softly, watching the man turn on his heels. He gazed at her, uninterpretable, almost absentminded. But she knew him. she knew his mind was sharpened, ready to spar, ready to manipulate her and bend her to his own will.

‘You said so yourself.’ She said.

 

‘I care for you…’ he started, taking one step back into her chambers, but she finished the sentence. ‘- Like no one ever will.’ Still seated on the edge of her bed, she peered her young and childlike blue eyes into his grey, knowing ones. His looked careful.

‘Why do I have to accept that I’ll be touched by a man who doesn’t love me?’

‘It is the duty of a woman, especially a noble-‘

‘I _will not_ accept it.’ He stood still again, aware of how he was closing in on her. She had to look up at him to meet his eye. The only thing she heard was his soft breathing.

 

‘Do you love me, Lady Stark?’

Sansa swallowed away four different answers before she replied.

‘I don’t think that is relevant.’

‘Why should I be with a woman who doesn’t love me?’

‘You already have.’ Sansa seemed so stern, so certain of her case. Silently, he sat down next to her, eying her lily-white skin. Sansa waited.

 

‘What do you know about sex?’ Petyr asked her quietly.

‘I know how to do it, if that is what you mean.’ Petyr raised his hand to touch her check. His rings were cold against her face.

‘It is not what I mean.’ Sansa turned to look at him, eyes now curious.

‘Have you ever touched yourself, dear Sansa?’ his voice dropped and sounded rasping in her ear. ‘Have you ever known arousal?’

She closed her eyes.

‘Yes.’ She breathed. His thumb touched her lower lip, slightly parting it from her upper lip. Her expression changed from adamant to helpless, even though it was obvious she tried to recover.

‘And did you ever come, my dear?’ his voice was now a mere whisper. She felt it sharply on her skin. She was confused by the question.

‘Come… where?’ she said, posture slipping.

‘Did you come, did you masturbate to completion?’ she shivered by his choice of words. Completion?

 

‘Oh, my dear Sansa.’ His hand slid down from her face and landed on her shoulder.

‘You don’t know what you want. You are far too young to make these demands-’

‘-So why can men demand them from _me_?’ she snapped at him.

‘Why can you decide that I do not know pleasure?’ Sansa shook his hand off her shoulder and grabbed hold of the wrist.

‘Sansa!’ Petyr called out, startled, when he saw her pulling up the front of her robes to her navel. He pulled away his hand and grabbed at her clothing, trying to urge it down, but she was determined in exposing herself to him. Once again, she got hold of his wrist and pulled his hand towards her.

‘Sansa, please.’ He begged, but he stopped resisting.

 

The tips of his fingers touched the soft hair lining her pubis. It disappeared between her legs, there where Sansa was trying to make him feel that she indeed knew pleasure. But his fingers stopped to caress the spot they were at now. Petyr had noticed she was red there, too.

 

‘You heard your aunt Lysa on our wedding night, didn’t you?’ Petyr said hoarsely, not breaking away his gaze to meet her eye.

‘Those weren’t  screams of pain. That was pleasure.’

Sansa felt the smooth tips of his fingers caress her down there, stroking, teasing. She loosened her grip on his wrist. He did not pull away. ‘That can happen when a woman comes. When it is done right.’ His gaze glided over her lower body, her dress, draped over her arm, her long, slim neck and then met her eyes.

 

He pressed a ringed finger between her folds. Sansa gasped, surprised, and Petyr quickly sat up to slide a hand behind the back of her head and pull her in for a firm kiss. This time, it wasn’t just the touch of his lips, like that morning in the gardens, this time, it was hard, wet. It had nothing to do with the familiar kisses you share with mothers and sisters, she thought, as his lips parted and his tongue moved over her mouth. His finger still against her vagina, only moving due to her shivering hips. When she opened her lips and his tongue moved inside, she tried to mimic its movements. The feeling of their tongues dancing and sliding against each other was like oil on the small fire she already felt in her loins.

 

Petyr suddenly moved away, grinning at how she writhed her wet pussy against his stubborn hand. It made her feel small, a bleak contrast to the upper hand she had mere minutes ago. ‘That feels good, doesn’t it?’ his hot breath on her skin. She nodded. Then he moved away his hand. It made her insides contract with disappointment.

 

The hand behind her head now clawed at her hear, tilting her head slightly backwards. She felt how, again, Petyr’s eyes slid up and down her body. She read true regret in his eyes as they stopped at her lips.

‘I promised Ramsey Bolton a virgin bride.’ He said hoarsely. ‘That is what he is going to get. What the North is going to get.’ He let go of her and allowed his eyes to meet hers again.

‘This is greater than both you and I. You belong in the North.’ He looked completely calm again as he stood up, leaving a flustered Sansa behind on the bed, but still he turned on the doorstep.

 

‘And if you play your cards right, Lady Stark…’ she was happy he didn’t look up at her, for he would have seen her fighting back tears. ‘… I can promise you, that you are going to get the North.’ He took short, swift paces and disappeared in the hall.

 

Sansa finally dropped the fabric of her dress. She pressed her fingers against her lips to hold in a sob, and took deep breaths to control herself. What felt like ages ago, she had decided  not to cry over small things. Long after he had gone, she could still taste him on her tongue.


End file.
